


Consequences

by days4daisy



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brainwashing, Captivity, M/M, MayThe4th Treat, Tentacles, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-25 11:32:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10763391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: “Enjoy your consequences, Galen.” Krennic shakes his chained wrists. “I’ll surely enjoy mine.”





	Consequences

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosecake/gifts).



> A few passages borrow from the Rogue One novelization by Alexander Freed.

Krennic’s uniform is left on for show. Dirt scuffs the knees. Blood dries in copper flecks on the chest and collar. His cape is torn into muddy strips that drag on the floor of his cell. The Rebels have his code cylinders and are hard at work cracking into them.

It’s hot. Krennic feels the sweat more than the cut above his brow.

From the neighboring cell, a mantra cycles in a low, shaking voice. “I am the pilot. I am the _pilot_.”

One might expect unfilled time to drive a man of Krennic’s inexhaustible ambition mad. But while Krennic’s temper is short, his patience is long. How many years did he chip away at the establishment until he earned the lead role on the Death Star project? How long did he toil in secret, planting the seeds of the Empire’s greatest achievement? How patient was he with his old friend, despite misstep after misstep?

Galen expects Krennic at his most vulnerable, but Krennic is resilient. He sits on the bench of his cell, shackled hands bridged between his knees. Galen stands just outside the barred door, and has for the past thirty minutes. He is in no rush for conversation. Neither is Krennic.

“We were right to come here,” Galen offers at last. “Saw is a friend. He’ll help us.”

The sentiment draws a bitter smile. “Will I receive the same welcome as your pilot?”

Beyond Krennic’s cell, Gerrera’s Rebel cultists banter in a range of Outer Rim tongues. The shallow voice of Bodhi Rook hovers over their laughter. “I am the pilot. _I am the pilot._ ”

“It had to be done, Krennic,” Galen insists. “It was too much power. Too much hatred.”

“Oh, Galen. What a hero you are.”

Familiar frustration builds; years spent speaking to a brick wall! Galen’s mouth tightens. “We will all face our consequences now.”

“Yes well, enjoy your consequences.” Krennic shakes his chained wrists. “I’ll surely enjoy mine.”

***

“Galen!” As soon as he hears Krennic’s voice, he knows something is wrong.

Krennic’s next scheduled visit to Eadu was to be two standard weeks away. With the weapon near completion, his trips to research facilities have become less frequent. In the immediate aftermath of Lah’mu, Krennic visited Galen’s post multiple times a month. To see to his welfare, he claimed. It was a poor excuse for what they both knew.

There is too much for Krennic to see to now on the actual construction site. Krennic’s talents were never in the manipulation of raw materials. As an architect though, he is brilliant, and he knows it. Krennic does not trust anyone else to see to the final pieces of the Death Star’s construction. Relentless challenges from Wilhuff Tarkin have also not gone unnoticed.

Krennic would not appear on Eadu without reason. Nor would he do so with the forced smile he wears now. Galen knows his anger well; fits of self-righteous passion that border on madness. This mood is different. Desperate. Unrehearsed. Galen sets down his data pad and excuses himself from his team.

The laboratory matches Krennic’s uniform; crisp white, pleated to perfection. His cape billows behind him. What a character he’s made for himself. The authoritarian who inherited his title without any military experience behind it.

“Director.” Galen nods in greeting. “You’re ahead of schedule. Have you come to see the latest feeds? Our new conductors are channeling outputs at a remarkable rate.”

Krennic’s eyes dart from Galen to his team. “We’ll be just a moment.” He waves Galen towards the exit. “Follow me.”

 _He knows_.

There have been other times when Galen thought for sure it was over. All paranoid delusion and unfounded fear. Until now. This time, Galen is sure.

Can he escape from Krennic and run? If so, will he make it to the hangar bay without confrontation? Are the Stormtroopers closing in at this very moment? Perhaps...no, Galen cannot ask for help from the young Jedha pilot. Galen has already asked too much of him.

Galen settles, finally, on resignation. How did he expect this story to end? One does not defy the Empire and live to tell the tale. The Rebellion may celebrate Galen Erso one day, but he will not see it. Maybe it’s for the best. Galen is an old man now with the dying dream of a one in a million shot.

The hallway outside the lab is void of foot soldiers or droids. They cross granite floors, Krennic’s white shadow like a ghost on water. “Do it quickly,” Galen mutters.

Krennic does not look at him. “You have no right to ask anything of me, Galen.”

No right… This man murdered Lyra, separated Galen from Jyn, and has kept Galen as a prisoner of his own fanaticism. If anyone has the right to ask of Krennic, it is Galen Erso.

They are in the cafeteria before Galen can address him. It is a crowded room, bustling with droid and organic activity. Laughter shouts over long metal tables. A public forum for Galen's death? This fits Krennic’s love of attention, but it’s cruel. Perhaps Galen was misguided in thinking Krennic better than this, even now.

“Which one?” Krennic asks.

“What?”

“Which one is your courier?” Krennic scans the assembly with narrowed eyes. “Tell me.”

“No.” Galen stands in front of him, absorbing the ice of Krennic’s glare. “It was me, Krennic. You know that. It was always me.”

Krennic’s face does not move. “It was always you,” he echoes. “And you’ve killed us all now, haven’t you?”

Galen’s anger sinks to a deeper dread. “What do you mean?”

“Your courier,” Krennic prompts again. “The one you trust. Who is it?” His expression lacks composure. Wild, almost _pleading_. A pit forms in Galen’s stomach; the fear of not knowing.

“He’s on the end of the second table,” Galen responds. He has no reason to trust Krennic, but he knows he must. Something is coming. Whatever it is, they don’t have time. “Bodhi Rook.”

“Get him,” Krennic says.

The facility’s alarms begin to scream.

***

Krennic does not show fear until the end. He holds his head high while his arms and legs are chained to the chair. When the creature approaches, he feels the heat of eyes behind him. Eager scum faces, delighting in what may be his final moments. One, Krennic thought he knew. Maybe he did, a long time ago.

As it turns out, Krennic’s most prized possession will be his downfall. A tragedy fit for the grandest stages of Coruscant. Perhaps they will remember him after _his_ Death Star returns the Rebellion to the dirt it sprouted from. Unwashed rabble reduced to dust.

No. There will not be tales of the achievements of Orson Krennic, or his ruin at the hands of his dearest friend. They will only call him ‘traitor’ now. The director who abandoned his post on the eve of the Empire’s greatest achievement. All because of one weakness; the single thread to his old life he was never quite able to sever.

Krennic is above them all, even Galen Erso. He always has been, and he will be until the end. He looks right at the creature as it slithers towards him. His jaw clenches. His eyes narrow.

He flinches when the first tentacle latches to his temple. Not from the pain of it, though it’s excruciating. Like his head is being crushed between two cinderblocks.

Krennic does not fear pain. He does not even fear death, a fact that would surprise his most vocal dissenters. No one challenges the Imperial establishment if they fear for their life. Pain, blood, death: acceptable sacrifices. But he covets his mind above all else. His precious mind; the source of his power, his worth!

Bor Gullet takes it, digging past skin and bone to the very marrow of his being. His intelligence, his secrets; each molecule that forms the essence of Orson Krennic. Bor Gullet takes every last drop.

There may be a voice of dissent in his audience, or Krennic imagines it in his pain-induced madness. Funny, to believe his old friend would come to his aid in the end. Everything he’s known about Galen Erso has proven to be a fabrication. It’s because of Galen that Krennic is here now!

Wherever ‘here’ is. Where is he? … Who is he?

Someone is speaking. A monotone recitation of horrible things. Decades of deceit. A terror so vast, it shakes him to the core. Who would develop a weapon so unthinkable? What kind of monster would do such a thing?

There must have been a time when Krennic thought like Galen, surely. Did Krennic ever question what was asked of him? Did he wonder if peace was worth the price of fear?

Galen was right all along, wasn’t he?

Galen was… _Galen_.

***

Galen begins with Bodhi. The young pilot is showing progress, slowly clearing the fog left by the creature’s mind probe.

A snap inches from his face makes him jump from the floor where he spends most of his days. “I am the pilot…” Bodhi wraps arms around himself.

Galen goads him gently. "Yes. You are the pilot. Your name is Bodhi Rook."

"Bodhi Rook," Bodhi parrots. Doubt narrows his eyes. "Bodhi Rook. The pilot."

"Yes," Galen pursues; cautious, quiet. "Bodhi Rook is the pilot. The pilot is you, Bodhi."

"I am the pilot," Bodhi says. His mouth quivers, his eyes widen. "I am Bodhi Rook."

Galen begins with Bodhi because it is the right thing to do. Bodhi, like Galen, carried the weight of his own convictions. He served the Empire, but he stopped believing in its ideals. Bodhi, as a cargo pilot, saw the devastation of the Empire's rule closer than many. It became too much to bear.

He is still a young man whose only failing was to take employment on the side of the strong. To compromise his own ideals for a safe and secure life. Bodhi is not like Galen, an old man with a litany of sins to his name. Bodhi does not deserve this fate.

Galen begins with Bodhi because Bodhi is recovering. Bodhi is a seed of hope. And Galen is a coward.

***

Orson Krennic’s apartment is in the city center. In the twilight hours, he leaves his wall-spanning windows open. A comfortable breeze billows floor-to-ceiling curtains across his floor. The lights of Coruscant illuminate his bedroom in blues and greens.

He is still dizzy from the evening’s revelry - the wine, and the activities that followed. Their legs tangle together, Orson’s head tucked beside Galen’s ear. The senior student is rehashing his theories on thermal energy conduction. Orson understands little of what he’s saying. He is smart in his own right, but architecture and design are his specialities. Orson toils at the science end of the Republic’s Futures Program. His decent grade point average is thanks to his extracurricular work. Fundraising events, public speaking, and social matters that his classmates shrink from.

Orson does not need a pristine academic record to know that Galen Erso is brilliant. His mind is precious, and one day it will be lucrative. Wisdom is worth valuable credits in today’s society, particularly in energy research. If Orson plays his cards right, a business venture could serve both of them well. Public engagements are, after all, not Galen’s forte.

Galen lured Orson with his promise and kept him with his intoxicating strangeness. He is a creature unto himself. Odd. Stubborn. Endlessly fascinating.

In the late hours, Galen’s skin glows with the red of passing sirens. His dark hair is out of its bun, spanning Orson’s pillow. Galen has a runner’s body, lean and strong. And creative, _so_ creative. Galen claims to be a fish out of water in social situations, but he is far from inexperienced in bed.

Orson is not designed for love. Love is a detriment to progress, and brilliance demands a mind free of obstacles. But _were_ Orson to love anyone, he’s decided that Galen would be an acceptable choice.

Galen pauses, eyes slanting. “Are you awake?” he asks.

Orson hums. “Tell me, Galen. Will you ever marry? A child, perhaps?”

Galen raises a brow. “Married? I can’t imagine so, no.”

“Come now.” Orson traces the cleft of his chest. “You aren't tempted by that fabled domestic bliss?”

“Marriage requires time that I’m unable to spare.” Galen turns, their faces separated by inches. “And you, Orson? Do you desire a family of your own?”

“Please. Can you picture me with children?”

Galen smiles knowingly. “You hate unpredictability.”

“I hate things that smell and scream,” Orson counters. “Besides.” He presses a patient kiss to Galen’s lips. “You, my friend, are the furthest thing from predictable. I still enjoy your company from time to time.”

“I suppose.” Galen regards him with interest. “What brought this on?”

Orson steals another kiss. This one lingers, a hand tangling in Galen’s hair. His mouth parts gently, and he is gratified when Galen leans into him. Orson has learned to read Galen’s responses. The little tricks and touches that draw him in without fail.

Orson has no desire to answer Galen’s question. So he does what he does best: he makes Galen forget.

***

Galen snaps fingers in front of Krennic's face. Krennic does not move.

He is slumped on his cell’s simple metal bench. His elbows brace on his knees, chains heavy between his hands. His dulled eyes aim, unmoving, at the floor. He blinks every once in awhile. This and his breaths are his only signs of life. A bead of sweat draws a curve from his temple down his face.

Galen feels Saw's presence hovering on the other side of the cell door.

In earlier days, practicality tempered Saw Gerrera's violence. He understood the need for compromise, though it irritated him. The years have changed his old friend. Saw's eccentricities have become his reality now. It’s how he can justify the crime of reducing a man to...this. Morally bankrupt as Krennic became, he is still a living thing.

Though, Galen fears he has little room to disparage Saw’s methods. The years have changed Galen too, after all. The Death Star’s chief operating scientist. A gear in the Imperial machine.

Galen complied with the Empire’s wishes to protect his own deception, but he compromised himself in the process. He wore the uniform of an Imperial officer and was a prisoner in name only. He enjoyed the fruits of his labor, never treated poorly or left wanting. Galen had his team to socialize with, and the young pilots like Bodhi.

He also had Krennic, long past the point of saving. Krennic was there at Galen’s weakest moments, always ready to play the advantage. A piece of Galen never forgot their days on Coruscant. He was tired, physically and morally. Too tired to shy away from Krennic’s touch.

"You are Orson Krennic," Galen reminds him. "Do you remember? Your name is Orson Krennic." Krennic says, and does, nothing.

Galen’s loyalties emerged as the creature gorged itself on Krennic's mind. Its tentacles slithered around his old friend’s legs and arms. Latched to his temples. Whispered into his ears, setting him bone-straight on his chair. Krennic’s panic became nothing. A blank stare and a hollow voice. Krennic dangled in the arms of Bor Gullet. When the creature stroked his face, he tilted it obediently. His neck extended for tentacles to embrace like a loving noose. Glassy eyes drifted towards the ceiling, welcoming what was sure to be his death.

Galen asked Saw to stop. He told Saw to stop. He drew his hidden pistol, ten different Rebel blasters aimed back at him.

Saw loomed quietly, unperturbed by the tension. He drew his breathing apparatus to his mouth, heaved a sigh, and snapped it back into his breastplate. "This is not the man you knew, Galen," he said.

"Neither are you, Saw," Galen answered. "Neither am I."

Saw waved a hand, and Bor Gullet was dispatched. "His mind is not strong like the pilot's," he warned. Thus far, he has proven to be right.

Galen waves a single finger in front of Krennic. His eyes do not follow it. "Your name is Orson Krennic," Galen repeats, louder.

Krennic's gaze ticks towards him. "Galen," he mumbles. His eyes close, and he says nothing else.

***

Bodhi Rook is the pilot. He is Bodhi Rook.

Night has fallen over Jedha City. Stars glow between barred holes carved through the stone walls of the monastery.

Bodhi has lost track of time since they fled Eadu. This is the bad news. The good news is that Bodhi is aware of the concept of time again. In the days following Bor Gullet, his existence was a haze. Sharp sounds cut through fragments of language and memory. It took two days for Bodhi to say ‘I am the pilot.’ For weeks, they were the only words he could muster. He clung desperately to an identity slipping water-slick through his fingers. Bodhi was the pilot. The pilot of what?

With Galen’s persistence, Bodhi has made considerable progress. He still jumps at loud noises, and he repeats his mantra, ‘I am the pilot.’ It helps to hear the words. They are a reminder that he still exists.

A part of Bodhi is angry with Galen. Is this the dream he held to for so long? A chance to redeem himself by fleeing the Empire and allying himself with the Rebellion? Their captors are killers, no better than the Imperial forces they oppose. In some ways, they are worse! Desperate fighters are liable to do stupid things in the name of justice.

Still, they had no choice but to flee Eadu. Bodhi would rather a lying Galen Erso live than a truthful Galen Erso die by the Empire’s hands.

Murmurs rumble from the neighboring cell. Galen is speaking with Director Krennic. Speaking _at_ him, more accurately. Bodhi is not sure why he has recovered from his affliction while Krennic has not. Gerrera has praised Bodhi’s strength of character and mind. Bodhi would never credit himself with either trait.

Galen’s theory rings truer. “The creature did not have to mine deep to know you, Bodhi. You served the Empire, but your heart was where it should be. Krennic...is not like you.”

Bodhi wonders why Galen wants Director Krennic to recover. He has given his secrets to Bor Gullet. With his knowledge stripped, what purpose is there in helping him? Bodhi has seen Krennic’s cruelty first-hand. His flippant disregard for those under his command. His ruthless tactics. His selfishness.

The pilots and troopers were wary of the director’s methods but did not hide their contempt in friendly company. Bodhi overheard their scoffs on countless occasions. Ridiculous, they said, to take orders from a director in title only! Krennic was no officer, he was from the Corps of Engineers. What right did he have to such a lofty command post? Rumors circled of the favors Krennic no doubt offered in return for his good fortunes. In private, they snickered and mocked his cape-waving stroll.

None dared speak a word to Krennic’s face.

Bodhi cannot understand it, but the director means something to Galen. Maybe Galen feels obligated to help. Krennic did, after all, come to Galen’s aid on Eadu. He threw everything away for one scientist; a traitor, at that! It makes no sense. But what makes any sense in this awful place?

Sad to think of Jedha in such a way now. Bodhi holds little fondness for it anymore.

A rattling of chains draws Bodhi’s attention. He peers through the bars separating his cell from Krennic’s. What he sees makes him yank desperately at his own cuffs. “Are you leaving?” he hisses. “Galen! Please don’t leave me!”

Galen is guiding the director through the open door of his cell like a master walking his beast. At Bodhi’s voice, he turns, mouth set in a patient line. “I would not leave you, Bodhi. Trust me.”

Trust is a luxury Bodhi cannot afford these days, especially with Galen Erso. But what option does Bodhi have? He nods, dismally accepting his fate. “What are you doing with him?” he asks.

“I’ll return soon,” Galen says. “I promise.”

He is out of sight before Bodhi can ask about his words. _Galen_ will return soon. Will the director return too?

***

Galen knows what he intends to do as he leads a chained Krennic from his cell. He tells Saw he will do it, after Saw offers him two choices. It will be better this way.

Galen is sure he will do it, as he binds Krennic to a pipe welded into an old generator core. This section of Saw’s catacombs is out of use now, too damaged by heat and dust to conduct power.

Krennic sits on a filthy floor. The cape he once preened in lies around him in graying strips. His arms are strung to his sides by rust-caked cuffs, wrists slack and fingers curled. His hair is disheveled. His face, hollowed by lack of food.

A chuckle bubbles out of Galen, sharp and cold. Galen, a man who prides himself on considering every possibility, never saw any of this coming. Surely there were signs, even in their youth. He should have known what this man would become. What he would turn Galen into, and what Galen would do to him in kind.

Galen’s blaster is small and sleek, a skinny black barrel with a silver trigger. It is light, hardly military grade, but it will suffice for its task. He draws the weapon from his waist holster. With the blaster in his grasp, he is more aware of the leather belt Krennic wears. It was Saw’s choice to keep the vacant holster on him; empty as Krennic’s Imperial rank, he muttered.

Isn’t this fate merciful compared to the many that could have befallen Krennic? Now, he will forever be beyond the Empire’s punishment. If the Emperor collected Krennic, he would not receive the luxury of a quick passing. His life would be stripped from him as slowly and painfully as possible.

Isn’t it also merciful to admit defeat after weeks of trying to cure him? Krennic has lost his mind, his most cherished possession. His ability to exist as more than a blank stare and the occasional murmur of Galen’s name. Krennic would not want to live in this state. Galen will kill him. His duty as father and husband demands it. Krennic himself would want this.

The weapon grows warm in his palm, sticky with a nervous sweat. The intended target’s sullen eyes linger on Galen. Like a broken housepet awaiting its next command.

Perhaps death is too kind for a man of Krennic’s sins. It seems too neat, too _final_. Doesn’t Lyra deserve more? Doesn’t Jyn, if she has met her mother in another life? His precious Stardust…

The things Galen could do to his old friend in this state. The things he _should_. Things he dreamed of, even as he keyed open the door to his Eadu bedroom. As he bid Krennic to enter and welcomed his possessive embrace.

Galen’s jaw clenches.

Who is he, by comparison? The scientist who helped the Empire achieve its greatest triumph. Flawed, yes. But operational. The man who thrust his only daughter into the wilds of the galaxy. Who begged Lyra to lower her weapon, when he knew full well she never would.

He was the one who welcomed Orson Krennic into his bed after Lah’mu. Galen convinced himself that doing so was necessary to blind his old friend to his deceit. Now, Galen sees his foolishness. Krennic was already drunk on power. He needed no further coercion.

It was Galen who asked Krennic to meet him on Eadu. Galen, who stole the first kiss from Krennic’s startled lips.

They are both rotten to the core. Perhaps they deserve each other now more than ever.

Galen lowers his blaster, barrel bowed towards the floor. Krennic regards him with that same infuriating blankness. A tip of his head, a blink of frozen eyes.

“Is this all we are now?” Galen mutters, not sure who he’s addressed the question to.

None should have been more satisfied than Krennic by the Emperor’s execution order. Krennic stated as much, strung in the limbs of Bor Gullet. A tentacle stroked his lips, coaxing him to confess.

“Galen betrayed us,” Krennic rasped. “He was to be terminated immediately.” Bor Gullet’s limb tightened around his throat. “Galen...betrayed me,” Krennic wheezed. “He betrayed _me_.”

But Krennic came for him. As evil as he became, as corrupt, he came.

Galen’s hand shivers around the weapon. “Your name is Orson Krennic,” he whispers. Krennic’s frown deepens, as if denying the declaration. He gives no other sign of recognition. It riles Galen to an anger more violent than he has felt in years.

Galen could not afford anger during his servitude to the Empire. He could not allow rage to blind him in Krennic’s presence. Alone in his own quarters, Galen could not allow his own reflection to be a source of contempt. Revenge required acceptance. Hatred could not lead his plan astray. Galen swallowed it down, buried it deeper and deeper. Bit his tongue through every mindless diatribe Krennic leveled at him. Nodded when given updates from his Eadu guards. Splashed water on his face with hands stilled of shaking by his conviction.

Now, there is no reason to deny himself his anger. He levels it at Krennic, who watches in open curiosity until Galen’s fist grips his hair. A surprised grunt rips from tense lips as Galen forces him to his knees. Chains clang in protest, trying to yank Krennic back down. Galen does not let them, even as Krennic’s back whiplashes.

After all Krennic has done to Galen, to Lyra, to Jyn, to the galaxy. After all Krennic has done, now he gets to deny his own name? He’s allowed to forget? To be at peace? Peace he once decreed was only possible through terror?

Galen brings the hilt of the gun down on him. It cuts skin on the first try, a nail-slim cut across Krennic’s temple. Their nook fills with the crack of metal hitting bone. Krennic chokes on a breath, too stunned to muster a proper scream. He is unaware of all he’s done, and not even capable of expressing pain at his punishment!

Galen brings the gun down again, again. Blood streaks his assaulting hand. It stains Krennic’s face and dribbles onto his already dirty uniform. Krennic pulls at his chains, instinctively trying to protect himself. The cuffs do not yield; he can only kneel and accept the brunt of Galen’s fury.

Years of torment. So many bodies. Not a care in the world. Not a care given still!

Galen is out of his mind for the first time in his life. He isn’t thinking. He has no plan. At some point, the gun falls from his grasp. Galen continues with his fist. He smacks Krennic across the face. He follows with a backhand. His other hand keeps him up, fisted tight in his hair. Krennic’s body sags under his grip. He jerks in his chains, twisting to try to shield himself. His eyes squeeze shut. Blood leaves the left side of his face red. A drop slopes down the bridge of his nose, dribbling to lips drawn back in a sneer.

Galen stops only when he notices this. He realizes he’s still gripping Krennic by the hair. Realizes that his hand is wet with Krennic’s blood. He sees how much of it he’s spilled. How swollen and bloody Krennic's face has become. How _furious_ Krennic looks.

His rage is in the trembling of his snarling mouth. Tight breaths bursting behind clenched teeth. Eyes refusing to close, narrowed glare edged out between squinted lids.

Galen pulls his hair back, forcing Krennic’s head to tilt. Krennic hisses at their eye contact, straining to free himself from Galen’s grip.

“You are Orson Krennic,” Galen tells him.

Krennic answers with a scowl, incensed and unsteady. “Yes,” he rasps.

After weeks of trying to coax it from him, all Galen can do now is release him. With his hair no longer held, Krennic collapses. His body crumbles against the wall, his head snapping forward with a wince. He catches his breath in ragged pants.

Galen looks at the fallen blaster a few meters away on the floor. In reach, an end still very possible. All he has to do is pull the trigger. On Krennic. On himself. This needs to end. They need to end.

He kneels in front of Krennic and regards the bloody gashes on his brow. Shallow but still open, smeared like bad face paint. Already bruising, skin marked by swelling welts of yellowing purple.

Galen raises the towel he brought for himself, to clean his own hands when the job was done. Now, he applies it to Krennic, earning slanted, suspicious eyes and teeth bared in warning. Galen shifts towards him, and Krennic pulls back as much as the wall will allow. He twists away from Galen’s attempted touch, trying to cover himself with his hands. The chains force his arms back to his sides.

Mouth set, Galen follows him. Krennic has recoiled as far as he can. He frowns at Galen’s hand, shoulders bunched, trying to ward him away. A grunt of pain grits between clenched teeth when Galen succeeds in dabbing at the first cut. He’s shivering in his bonds, a reaction more of anger than fear. Krennic glares; the look might have amused if not for the severity of their situation.

He's never handled vulnerability well, even as a young man. A hand burned in the laboratory. A violent string of Navsa-flu. An ankle twisted on an afternoon run. Krennic's protests of “If I wanted your help, I would ask for it!” or “Since when are you in med?” were accompanied by warning scowls.

He never wanted to look weak. It embarrassed him, made him irrationally furious. A sign of what was to come, Galen sees now.

At present, Galen does not care about sparing his feelings. As Krennic shies from him, Galen pursues with more force. He is not gentle when he swipes the blood from Krennic’s face. The towel is coarse on bruising skin, and Krennic's jaw clenches. Galen hooks his chin between thumb and forefinger and forces it to rise. Krennic stares at him murderously. Galen evaluates his eyes; they are clearer than they have been. No concussion. He tips Krennic’s head to the side, wiping the red stains from his cheek.

“It’s quite unlike you,” Galen observes, “to refuse to speak.” If possible, Krennic’s anger seems to intensify. He wrenches his head from Galen’s grasp. Galen evaluates him with new eyes, the mind of the scientist instead the man. “Are you refusing,” he wonders, “or are you unable?”

Krennic’s eyes go cold. He turns from Galen, leveling his hatred at a side wall instead. Galen takes this in too. Indignant, as always, when Galen is right.

“I’ve tried to teach you,” Galen explains. “You will regain your speech, if you re-learn it. That is what the creature took from you. You must unlock it, as Bodhi has done.”

Krennic chuckles harshly. His teeth cut together. A muted sound, “Nnn,” whistles between them. Krennic's bitter expression turns startled. His eyes lose their fury, mouth slacking with concern. Both frost over immediately. Krennic turns further from Galen.

Galen was wrong. Entirely wrong. Krennic hasn’t lost his mind. It is very much alive and as vibrant as ever.

Krennic has lost his ability to put thoughts into words. Bor Gullet did not take his intellect, he took his ability to express it. Punishment far more cruel for one of Krennic’s vanity. To steal his mind would leave him unaware of his own condition. For weeks, under Galen’s tutelage, Krennic knew exactly what was happening. He lived in resignation, or was waiting for the moment when, like Bodhi, speech would return to him.

It hasn’t, a fact Krennic is very aware of.

Galen glances at the discarded blaster on the ground. Pointedly, he looks back at Krennic. “I will do it, if this is what you want.” Krennic’s frown deepens. “It will be the only kindness I give you,” Galen adds. “You allowed Bodhi and I to escape. You’ve given me a fool’s hope of finding Jyn.”

Krennic scoffs at the name. Through the years, he refused to utter it. ‘The child,’ he called Jyn, petty to the point of jealousy.

“This is all I owe you,” Galen continues. “Make your choice. Then we're through, you and me. I owe you nothing else. Your fate is your own.”

He isn’t expecting Krennic’s head to sink back against the wall. The vague smile that touches a corner of his mouth. His sighed, “Galen,” is quiet yet resolute.

Krennic has made his choice. Galen is not sure which option he was hoping for. All he feels is exhaustion.

He unlocks the latch binding Krennic to the old generator pipe. The blaster, he tucks into his holster. Galen takes Krennic by the chains and drags him to his feet. Krennic manages it, blinking at the ground. He limps where Galen pulls him, surprisingly compliant. No hiss of complaint, no indignant scowl.

He does not fight when Galen returns him to his cell. He does, however, turn to watch Galen leave. His eyes say many things. Galen is unwilling to hear any of them. He keys in the lock code. The cell door slams shut.

Saw waits for him on the other side. “You’ve left him for me,” he observes.

Galen passes him, feet dragging under the weight of his exhaustion. “Kill him if you must,” he murmurs. “But I will kill you if you do.” Galen pauses, a steadying hand braced on the wall. His fingers are caked in drying blood.

He hears the heavy rasp of Saw’s breathing apparatus. It clicks into place on his chest a moment later. “You are not a killer, my friend,” Saw says. “You never were. I see the pain it’s caused you.”

Galen glances at him. “I am more of a killer than you will ever be, Saw." Weary, he pushes himself from the wall. “Make your choice,” he mumbles. “I have no more left in me.”

***

“Who are the two in the next cell?”

Cassian tears his eyes from the guards and glances over to Chirrut. It is the first time the blind man has spoken in nearly an hour.

Baze grunts and shuffles to his feet. “What? Where?” He crosses the alcove, shouldering Cassian aside to make room at the door. He peers into the darkness of the cell across the way. All Cassian can see are shadows, but Baze pulls back abruptly, snarling. “I’ll kill them.”

Cassian leans in, trying to see what Baze has. “What? Kill who?”

“Imperials.” Baze squints, assessing the distance between himself and the ragged piles Cassian is beginning to discern in the next cell.

Cassian tries to interpose his body between Baze and the cell door. “No - wait!” He isn’t sure what Baze can do from behind bars, but what he saw in Jedha City was enough to make him leery. “Back off!” He taps the larger man’s chest with his hands, tries to seem insistent without starting a brawl.

Baze shoves Cassian once, but there is no fire behind it. He returns to his corner of their cell and slumps, resigned, to the floor.

Cassian crouches at the bars. The first ragged pile shifts awkwardly. Shadows crystalize into limbs, hair, a dirt-encrusted face, and a battered uniform with Imperial markings on the arms. The man does not seem to see Cassian, staring between his knees, huddled as if in fear of the dark and cold. Even from a few meters away, he stinks of sweat and filth.

Cassian frowns. Is this what Saw Gerrera does to his prisoners? Is this what he is doing to Jyn right now?

“Are you the pilot?” Cassian calls. The man does not look up. “Hey, hey - are you the pilot? The shuttle pilot?”

The man blinks. Lights from the guards’ chamber gleam in his wet eyes. “Pilot. Yes,” he answers. “I am the pilot. Bodhi Rook.”

Cassian blows out a relieved breath. As bad a turn as circumstances have taken, their pilot still has his wits about him. He will have information on Galen Erso’s location. The mission may not be lost.

A second mass of shadows congeals into the fraying husk of a man. His white clothes are spirit-like in the darkness. One side of his face is badly beaten and bruised. With a blaster shaft or other blunt object, Cassian guesses. The bruises are too pronounced to be from fists alone.

Cassian recognizes this man. He cannot remember meeting him, but his face is familiar. One Cassian has studied on holo-vids and data pads.

The white uniform. The ghost. The planet killer. “Son of a bitch,” Cassian breathes.

“What?” Baze rises to his feet, drawn by the reaction.

“You son of a bitch,” Cassian spits louder. The bloodied head of the Imperial officer tilts with a wry smile.

“You know him,” Chirrut observes. He is not clamoring to get close like his larger companion, but there is curiosity in his voice. His sightless eyes follow the direction of Baze’s footsteps.

How did Saw Gerrera manage to snare the architect of the planet killer? Cassian’s mission has been to eliminate Galen Erso, but this is a greater opportunity. Remove the ghost from the board, and the entire project will be crippled! He needs to get a message to Draven. This changes everything.

“The ghost,” Cassian mutters to himself.

“Director Krennic,” Bodhi corrects.

“Krennic,” Cassian echoes. It is a name he is familiar with. Orson Krennic. A member of the Corps of Engineers. A mind of lesser renown than Galen Erso's, but still well-regarded within the Imperial community.

Orson Krennic, the ghost, the planet killer. The Corps of Engineers was a cover! It all clicks into place.

Cassian’s mind whirls - and with it, relief like he has not felt in years. Krennic is the piece they have been waiting for. His death may be the key to keeping Jyn's father alive, if and when they find him.

“An Imperial officer,” Baze growls behind him. Cassian places a hand on his chest, both gentle and firm. He will gladly welcome Krennic’s death, but not here. He is still too important.

“I’m not sure how useful he will be to you,” Bodhi says. Behind him, Krennic’s eyes are like knives. They stay on Cassian, mouth curled like a predator on the hunt.

Cassian does his best to answer calmly. “He will talk,” he says. “They always do.”

“That’s the problem,” Bodhi explains. “Director Krennic can no longer speak.”

Cassian frowns. “What do you mean he can’t speak?”

“Bor Gullet,” Bodhi replies. The words mean nothing to Cassian. Bodhi huffs. “You need to talk to Galen. He will explain everything.”

Cassian’s eyes widen. “Wait… Galen Erso is _here_?”

“What’s wrong with him?” Chirrut asks behind them.

Cassian and Baze both turn. “With who?” Baze demands.

“The director.”

Cassian and Baze glance at each other before squinting into the shadows. Krennic is on his feet, his head turned towards the window at the far end of their cell. His head cocks, the previous smugness erased from his face. Now, his expression is still. A slow blink like resignation. His chained wrists clank at his sides.

“Hey,” Cassian demands. “What are you doing?”

A violent tremor suddenly shakes the ground beneath their feet.

***

In no time at all, Cassian picks the lock to their cell.

“Proton bombs?” Baze wonders, trailing him out into the open.

“No,” Chirrut says, though he ventures no other alternatives.

K-2SO offers little solace when Cassian gets his comm working. “There is a problem on the horizon… There _is_ no horizon.” His metallic voice tacks on a cheerful, “On a positive note, I may have found our planet killer.”

Bodhi is on his feet, rattling the bars of his cell door. “Please don’t leave us!”

Despite their situation’s direness, Baze still manages to scoff. “ _Us_ ," he growls. "A true Imperial. Unwilling to lose his dear director even at the end.”

“Galen would not want us to leave him,” Bodhi insists.

They don’t have time for this! “Bring them,” Cassian orders the Guardians, motioning at Bodhi and Krennic’s cell. As soon as the words are out, he’s halfway to the cavern exit.

“Where are you going?” Chirrut calls after him.

“I’ve got to find Jyn,” Cassian shouts. “Get the pilot and the director; meet us up top if you want a ride out.”

The ship squeaks between flying debris and a rapidly deteriorating skyline. If not for their danger, the crew would marvel at a sight previously unseen. The complete destruction of a city within a matter of seconds.

“We should leave you here,” Cassian hisses at the director outside. “Let you die with the monster you’ve created.”

“Yes,” Krennic mutters spitefully. So, he does speak...

“We need to go!” It is a new voice, but one Cassian gauges immediately given his proximity to Jyn.

She reacts violently to the blaster he points at Galen Erso. “We need to go,” Jyn snaps, repeating her father's words. They are both right, of course. But Cassian notices the fresh bruise swelling on Galen’s face. Somehow, the blemish makes him feel justified.

Despite Jyn's declaration, she stiffens the moment her eyes falls on the director. " _You_ ," she whispers. Her eyes burn nuclear with fury. The director's glare fixes on her.

"Later!" Baze shouts, shoving them forward.

They climb into the U-Wing, Cassian jumping into the pilot’s chair. He punches in coordinates frantically as the ship sails towards the closing gap in the sky.

Rock and dust become the welcome void of space. For once, Cassian allows himself a breath of relief. He isn’t sure what he feels more: the thrill of escaping certain death, or of being right about the planet killer. Not only do they have proof, they have its chief operating scientist and lead officer. Both can stand trials for their crimes, or worse.

“I need to call Draven,” Cassian mutters to Kaytoo.

He finds their companions in the back, shock weaning to a weary calm. All are standing except the director, who is seated and chained. He is not making eye contact, bloody head turned towards the side hatch.

Cassian evaluates the lot, then motions from Baze to Galen Erso. “Lock him up too,” he says.

Jyn steps forward in protest, “Cassian-”

“Jyn,” Galen cuts in, a careful hand on her shoulder. Cassian does not miss her flinch, a twist of emotions he can't begin to decipher. Galen turns towards Baze. “Do it,” he says. Baze is more than happy to comply.

***

There is freedom in chains for Galen Erso. It is no longer his responsibility to decide his fate or anyone else’s. He may die. He may live. He may be freed by virtue of his testimony against the Empire. Or he may rot away in a Rebel cell. Galen no longer bears the weight of his conscience. It allows him to mourn the loss of Saw Gerrera in peace.

The room is a 10 x 10 cube, surrounded by iron walls on all sides. Meals arrive twice a day, and Jyn visits him just as often. It is a miracle every time she arrives. They have much to catch up on. Galen has so many regrets.

The Rebel Captain Andor comes too, with his superior officer General Draven. Occasionally, they are joined by a Senator Mothma, a statuesque woman in white who takes lead on their proceedings when she is in the room.

Galen is taken to a separate room for interrogation. Thus far, their methods have been surprisingly free of violence. Perhaps they sense that they have no reason to push. Galen is more than happy to offer any information he knows. He tells them that the weapon is called the Death Star. He explains the flaw built into the reactor core and illustrates how to trigger it. "If you give me time, I can recreate the plans. There is a back-up blueprint on Scarif, but retrieval will be near-impossible. It is in the data tower under the project name Stardust."

Draven and Andor accept this information. Their voices only rise as they probe for more on Krennic. “What was done to him?” they demand. “How do we fix him?”

Galen has no answer except a rueful smile. “Krennic will speak when he decides to,” he replies. “He enjoys the sound of his own voice too much to hide its return.”

Galen and Krennic occupy opposing sides of the cell. Inside, they wear no chains, free to move as they see fit. Krennic spends the majority of his days seated on a metal bench protruding from the wall. Galen alternates between sitting on the floor or pacing.

Jyn informs Galen that Bodhi Rook will not be held as a prisoner. He is free to live his life. This pleases Galen.

Krennic's interrogations do not run as smoothly as Galen's. Every day, he is treated to new attempts to revive his tongue. One evening, two fingernails go missing from his right hand. Another, he is held underwater until his lungs burn. Guards drop him, shivering and sputtering, on the cell floor.

His mouth bleeds one night; a pair of molars extracted. He has multiple needle punctures in his arms and neck. One makes him so dizzy he can't sit up straight. Another makes him smile and draw shapes in the air. The worst leaves him balled and shuddering on the bench. His screams last all night. Galen does not sleep.

Galen's only bruise is from his reunion with Jyn, and it heals quickly. The mark is far less than he deserves. His precious Stardust. He nearly collapsed upon seeing her. Despite the years, he knew her immediately. She is so like Lyra. Her posture is straight and sure. Her eyes, soulful. Her mouth, passionate and true.

Galen cannot fear for his own fate, knowing she is alive and well. Weeks pass, but Galen is not impatient. His part is done. He will die or live as the Force decides.

As the days stretch on, he begins to share Krennic’s bench. The first time he sits, Krennic glances at him. He does not make Galen move, nor does he leave Galen’s side.

“They will kill you if you don’t speak to them,” Galen warns. “You will re-learn it, like Bodhi. You have to try.”

In Krennic's eyes, Galen sees the madman who ordered guns drawn on Lah’mu. He also sees the flashing lights of Coruscant, kisses and sighs shared in the nights of their youth. If Krennic had only been one or the other, how much easier would their lives have been?.

“Do you want to speak again?” Galen asks. A moment passes before he thinks to add, "Do you want them to kill you?"

Krennic’s mouth curls, something mirthless yet content. He sets a hand on the bench between them, palm up. There was a time when his fingers were manicured to perfection. Soft as a child’s, stained with invisible blood. But Gerrera’s compound has left them cracked with age and wear. His face is older too, mouth rimmed like an oval vase. Crease lines chap his brow and the corners of his eyes.

Funny now, to remember Krennic as the young man who chided Galen for refusing to ever have fun. Galen enjoyed him in those days. How they riled each other! Krennic’s goading wit to Galen’s stubborn-headedness. They tangled perfectly, a mess of limbs and wills struggling on bed springs until night turned to day. Destined to destroy each other, even then. Their course was set. If only Galen had seen what was right in front of his face.

Galen regards his offered hand in silence. After a moment, he retreats to the other side of their cell. For days, he does not approach Krennic. He rises only to eat, face interrogation, and be guided to the lavatory to wash and relieve himself.

“Why did he help you, papa?” Jyn demands one afternoon. She already knows the answer.

Galen owes her too much to avert his eyes. He faces her anger, her disgust, her hurt. “I am not a good man, Jyn,” he says. “I wish I could have been better for you. I wish I was better for your mother.”

When she takes his hand, he feels the love in her. Rage and disappointment, yes, but her love never left him. Even when she believed he was a traitor. Even as she prayed at night for his death.

That evening, Galen sits beside Krennic on the metal bench and covers Krennic’s hand with his own. Krennic's fingers hook between his. He sighs, and it feels like an ending.

They sit together in silence. Two old men awaiting their consequences.

*The End*


End file.
